


Take On Whatever, Together

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Bromance, Detroit Tigers, Drunkenness, Gay Chicken, Gen, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:46:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Justin’s on his third beer when the edges of his vision start to curl in and get a little blurry.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take On Whatever, Together

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://nullrefer.com/?http://mlbanonmeme.livejournal.com/1218.html?thread=147650&format=light#t147650) at [](http://mlbanonmeme.livejournal.com/profile)[**mlbanonmeme**](http://mlbanonmeme.livejournal.com/). I kind of got away from the original prompt.
> 
> Set vaguely during the 2006 season. One of a few short, inconsequential things I’ve been working on in order to get through some awful writer’s block. 
> 
> Thanks to [**crimsonkitty88**](http://crimsonkitty88.livejournal.com/) for the readthrough.
> 
> Title from “A.M. 180,” by Grandaddy.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Justin’s on his third beer when the edges of his vision start to curl in and get a little blurry. Then the ceiling starts swerving overhead, and maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to drink three beers in rapid succession on an empty stomach. Zumaya’s weight is steady and warm by his side, though, so it’s okay. He’s anchored.

Zumaya says something that’s probably supposed to be funny, but Justin’s not really so good with the focusing right now. Everything’s loud and fuzzy and vague. It takes way too much brain power to focus on the words that are coming out of Zumaya’s mouth, so he just stops trying after a little while. If Justin weren’t leaning so heavily on Zumaya, he’d probably float away in an imaginary sea of booze—which, hey, that doesn’t sound so bad.

Then Zumaya gives him a little shake, and Justin reaches up to bat his hand off his shoulder. “What is it? Whaddaya want?”

“You ain’t listenin’ to me,” Zumaya says, shaking him again. “I mighta said somethin’ real important and smart, and you missed it.”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t say anything real important or smart,” Justin says, smirking.

Zumaya swats him upside his head. “You’re a jerk. Don’t be a jerk. I’m drunk.”

“So’m I.” Justin finishes off the last of his beer and lets the empty bottle fall out of his hand. He hears it land softly in the carpet somewhere, but he doesn’t care enough to retrieve it. He’ll get it later, after he sobers up.

“You wanna play some Madden?” Zumaya asks, listing into Justin’s side a bit, pushing his weight against Justin’s.

“Too drunk for Madden,” Justin says, letting his head droop for a moment on Zumaya’s shoulder.

Zumaya reaches up and pats him on the cheek. Justin likes the way Zumaya’s thick, callused fingers rasp against his stubble. It feels nice. “There’s other stuff we could do.”

“Like what,” Justin asks.

“Oh, I dunno. We could drink more beer, I guess,” Zumaya says, slipping his hand away from Justin’s face. He lets it drop in his lap and he looks down at it for a few moments of deep contemplation, before curling it into a loose fist. “Could play some Rock Band.”

“I don’t wanna play Rock Band. How ’bout Guitar Hero,” Justin says, stabbing Zumaya in the chest with his finger. “Heard you liked that one.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Zumaya whacks his hand away.

“Make me!” Justin pokes at him again and Zumaya grabs onto his finger when he tries to pull his hand back. “Let go.”

“Finders, keepers.” Zumaya tugs gently.

“I need that finger, man,” Justin says. “Can’t pitch with only four fingers.”

“You think you got it bad, Jim Abbott pitched with only one hand.”

“He didn’t need both hands to throw the friggin’ ball,” Justin says.

Zumaya finally relents and lets go, but he looks smug. Like he struck out A-Rod looking or something. “I know what we could do.”

“Hello, non-sequitur,” Justin mutters under his breath.

“We could play gay chicken,” Zumaya says.

“ _What_? What the fuck is gay chicken?” Justin stares at him.

“It’s this game where you face off with another dude and keep movin’ your faces closer and closer, and the first one to pull away is the gay chicken,” Zumaya recites, proudly.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Justin says, laughing and shaking his head. He reaches up and sweeps a hand through his hair.

Zumaya shrugs. “You got any ideas?”

“We could just drink some more ’til we both pass out,” Justin says.

“ _Boring_.” Zumaya rolls his eyes.

“I _guess_ we could play gay chicken,” Justin says, a slightly uneasy feeling beginning to roil in his stomach. “I dunno, it just sounds _gay_.”

“I think that’s kinda the point,” Zumaya says, sitting back and spreading his long arms out over the back of the couch. Justin lets his eyes drift to the inked flames snaking up Zumaya’s left arm, traces along the thick, black lines until he gets lost in them and has to look away.

“Are you sayin’ you’re gay?” Justin looks Zumaya right in the face and scrutinizes him.

“Nah. It’s just a game, dude. Not my fault you ain’t as secure in your masculinity as I am,” Zumaya says, patting himself on the chest.

Justin rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, I’m secure in my masculinity!”

“If you was as secure in your masculinity as me, you wouldn’t be so afraid of gay chicken,” Zumaya says.

“That doesn’t make sense. Maybe I just don’t wanna play gay chicken with you,” Justin retorts.

“You suck.” Zumaya pouts and gets up, letting Justin flop on the couch face-first.

Justin says into the couch, muffled, “I hate you.”

“What was that?”

He feels Zumaya’s hand on the back of his head, in his hair. Justin raises his head and glares, unfocused. “I hate you.”

“You do not.” Zumaya pulls his hand back slowly, fingers scritching lightly in his hair.

“How do _you_ know?” Justin pouts again, feeling like a child. Whatever, he’s allowed to feel like a child if he wants to.

“I just _know_ ,” Zumaya says, cheeks dimpling. “I can just tell. You ain’t good at hidin’ it.”

“Hiding what.” Justin slides off the couch and spreads out on the floor, face first. Somehow, lying on the carpet makes him feel better, like the world isn’t swerving and swirling around him, ready to drag him down.

Zumaya thumps beside him, on his butt and Justin starts to giggle. “You’re really gone.”

“So gone,” Justin agrees, lifting his head slightly. Zumaya’s graying sock, with the hole in the toe, is in his line of sight and he reaches out, pokes his finger in the hole and wriggles it around.

Zumaya jerks his foot away and whaps Justin upside the head. Justin drops his face in the carpet again. “Dumbass,” Zumaya grumbles, sounding fond.

“You’re my best friend,” Justin says to Zumaya’s holey sock.

Zumaya rubs his foot in Justin’s hair. “Meh, I guess you’re alright.”

Justin shoves Zumaya’s foot away. “Bitch.”

Zumaya starts laughing and falls back against the couch. “Oh man. Man, oh man.”

Justin drags himself up and sits Indian-style. He wonders idly what the Cleveland Indians call it, then shakes the thought out of his brain. “I’ll play gay chicken with you.”

“Huh?” Zumaya looks back at him, blankly.

“I’ll do it ‘cause you’re my best friend,” Justin says.

“You don’t have to.” Zumaya shrugs.

“It’s okay,” Justin says. “ ’Cause you’re my best friend and, like, Kenny’s cool and stuff, but whatever. I can’t do this shit with Kenny. Maroth’s too—too proper. And Pudge is Pudge.”

Zumaya laughs and leans forward, getting a hand in Justin’s hair and tugging. “You’re an alright dude. You’re so drunk and you’re gonna forget this in the morning. But you’re pretty alright.”

“We are,” Justin says.

Zumaya keeps his hand knotted in Justin’s hair. “We are what?”

“We’re alright.” Justin closes his eyes.

“Yeah, we are,” Zumaya agrees, humming quietly.

Justin feels Zumaya’s lips press lightly against his own—at least he hopes those are Zumaya’s lips—and the slight scratch of his beard against his own chin. Justin opens his eyes and Zumaya pulls back, grinning, looking smug and happy and drunk.

“You suck, I wasn’t ready for that,” Justin says, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“I win.”

“Pretty sure you lose,” Justin says, laughing. He swears he can feel all the beer he and Zumaya have had sloshing around in his stomach. “That’s not how you play gay chicken.”

Zumaya hums some more and tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Nah, I think I win.”

“Lame-o.” Justin settles next to him on the floor and presses his weight against Zumaya’s. Zumaya turns his head and scratches his beard against the top of Justin’s head.

“Yup,” Zumaya says agreeably. “Yup. It’s all about me and you, buddy. Taking on the world together.”

Justin says nothing, just smiles and closes his eyes. His head is swimming and he can feel the slight press of nausea creeping in on him, but it doesn’t matter. 

Him and Zumaya, together, world spread out in front of them, theirs for the taking. That’s just perfect. That sounds pretty alright to him.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
